


Angel I found (All on My Own)

by believeitgirl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Universe, Destiel - Freeform, I'm so sorry, I've done so much research but tell me if something's wrong, M/M, Priest Castiel, Sam wants to talk about Dean's 'feelings', Slow Build, Small Town America, first time using Google Earth for a fic, set before hell, snail slow build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-19
Updated: 2013-09-18
Packaged: 2017-12-27 00:14:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,260
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/971974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/believeitgirl/pseuds/believeitgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is getting really freaking annoyed with this itching feeling under his skin. Castiel wasn't annoyed with the humming in his bloodstream per say but it was becoming distracting. </p><p>Why did the humming stop when they looked at one another? </p><p>Priest!Castiel and set before Dean went to hell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Angel I found (All on My Own)

**Author's Note:**

> I know I probably messed up a lot of the Catholic faith. Please, please, PLEASE correct me if something's wrong. 
> 
> I mean no offense if something is not right. I have been to mass a maximum of five times but I put in a whole bunch of research but, of course, I am bound to make mistakes. 
> 
> Also, the town this is set in, Adrian, Minnesota, is a real town. I have never been there, I do not know who lives there, nor do I know the name of the Bishop or Priest, nor do I know the time of mass. I just chose a random small town of America, went on Google Earth and looked at the stores and such on main street.

Dean and Sam were driving down I-90, cutting the bottom of Minnesota to get to South Dakota. Bobby called them not to long ago, telling them he needed them for a hunt. Apparently a group of Wendigos were kicking up a shit storm and Bobby needed more manpower.

Not that Dean could blame him, honestly. Not much more ‘man’ you could get than Dean.  
But, instead of itching for a hunt, something itched at Dean.

Not a physical itch, mind you. It was that feeling a person got when they were trying to remember the name of a song that they’d long forgotten, or the face of a friend they hadn’t seen since elementary school.

Problem was, Dean wasn’t thinking of anything. He wasn’t trying to remember a name or a face. That itch a person has… it was just there and it had been there for over an hour.  
The usual breakneck pace the Impala had was lost ten minutes into his itch starting, the music had been turned down twenty minutes in.

It was starting to get on Dean’s nerves.

“Dean, are you okay?”

“What Sammy?”

“It’s just, you’re in the slow lane and the music isn’t destroying my ear drums.”

“Yea, so?” Dean was distracted. By now, he would usually be teasing Sam about him always bitching at him to go slow or to turn the music down. There wasn’t even a ‘Samantha’ thrown in there.

“Dean, can I change the music?”

“As long as it’s not that pop crap you usually listen to.” Something was wrong. Something was really, really wrong. 

Sam reached for the radio and instead of ejecting the tape he turned the volume up as loud as it could go.

“SHIT!” Dean swerved, jumping in his seat a bit, not expecting the loud noise; Sam turned it back down to a respectable volume. “What the fuck Sam?! I could have crashed my baby!”

“Something’s wrong, Dean. You just agreed to let me change the music.” Oh shit, he did. Seriously, this thing was starting to piss him off. His grip on the steering wheel tightened until his knuckles turned white. “What’s wrong Dean?”

What was wrong? Dean glanced to his right and saw the sign for Adrian, Minnesota he’d seen a hundred times before. The itch got stronger.

“I don’t know man. But I think we should stop.”

“Dean, we’re an hour away from Bobby’s.” Sam sounded exasperated.

“I know,” They had since passed the sign but the feeling that he’d had for over an hour was still there, just intensified by fifty since he’d read the name. “I’ve just got this feeling.” Sam gave his brother a hairy eyeball but sighed in resignation.

“Alright, we’ll stop. But you’ve gotta call Bobby.”

“Fine.”

\-----

“What the hell do you mean you’re stopping? Ya, idjits are an hour away. Just hurry up and get here.”

“I know Bobby. I’ve just got this feeling….”

“What, do you think you’re going to find your prince at the ball tonight?”

“Just give me the benefit of the doubt, Bobby. Last time I had this feeling, we stopped a nest of vampires.” Bobby sighed—the same sigh Sam gave about ten minutes earlier.

“Fine. I’ll call in a favor but you owe me.”

“Yea, yea. We’ll come to your house bearing gifts of burgers and alcohol.”

“You idjits better. Let me know if you catch wind of something.”

“You got it.” Dean hung up and tossed the phone to Sam. “Alright, we’ll stay a couple nights and see if anything’s up around here.” He got off at Exit 26, a sign a mile back said there was a motel in the area.

“ Yea, I got that. When we get checked in, I’ll look and see if there’s anything fishy happening going on in the area.” Dean nodded and took a right once the light turned green. “Are you sure you’re okay? You look… tense. More so than usual.”

“I’m fine Sam. I just want to see what’s going on around here so this feeling can fuck off.” Looking around, he saw a few fast food chains and some diners; looks like they weren’t going to have any trouble finding a good place to eat.

“Is it, I don’t know, intense?”

“Yea, that’s one word for it.” Pulling into the Cozy Rest Motel, Dean practically jumped out of the car. His body was humming with whatever this was--the air was electrified. Sam went up aid paid for the rooms as Dean got their bags out of the back seat. Popping the trunk, he stuffed a few shotguns and a container of salt into his bag. Double checking to make sure  
Ruby’s knife was tucked next to his ankle and the Colt in his pants, he shut the trunk just in time for Sammy to hand him a key to their room for the next few days.

After they lined their room with salt and pew up a few wards, Sam sat down and opened his laptop whereas Dean flopped down onto the bed.

“Does it hurt?”

“No, Sammy, it doesn’t hurt.” Dean took a few breaths, attempting to not fidget.

“Is it like a headache?” Dean groaned softly and sat up, putting his elbows on his knees and gave Sam a put-out look. Sam just stared back worriedly and Dean just sighed (that seemed to be the theme of the day). He knew if he were in Sam’s position he’d be doing the exact same. Hell, he’d be all up in arms, calling in every favor he had trying to figure out just what the hell was wrong with his brother.

“No, Sam. It’s just… there. Remember the time you forgot the name of your favorite show as a kid and you spent days trying to figure it out?”

“Yea,”

“It’s like that.”

“So, it’s a memory?” Dean let out another noise of frustration.

“No, Sam. I don’t think we’ve ever stopped in Adrian. It’s too close to Bobby’s.”

“But we’re not in Adrian. We’re in Luverne.”

“Which is where I’m not going to be for long,” He picked up the Impala keys he tossed on the table not too long ago. He was too fucking antsy to stay in the motel for long. “I’ll be back with dinner.”

“It’s one o’clock, Dean.”

“And I have a feeling I’m going to be in Adrian for a while.”

“You and your feelings. Would you like to talk about them, Dean? Have a chick flick moment?” Dean turned and saw Sam giving him a shit-eating grin. He made bitchface number 23 (according to Sam) right back at him before walking out the door.

\-----

Adrian wasn’t much, not nothing, but it wasn’t anything to get excited about. There was only one main street and the entire neighborhood connected to it. Only one grocery store, two bars, one place to eat, Adrian State Bank, a farmers store; It was typical, small town America The sign said there was only about 1,200 people living there and if one drove more than half a mile in any direction they were no longer in Adrian.

It was the afternoon and Dean spotted a few men exiting the bar and women walking their dogs. A few people were chatting on the sidewalks but every head turned and looked Dean’s way when the Impala passes them.

Dean shivered, This place creeped him the hell out. Give him a group of demons before suburban neighborhoods. 

On one end of the road, there was a silo, connecting to the farmers store and the railroad track. On the other end was, probably, the most up-kept place in the entire town; a cathedral.  
For some reason, Dean stopped at the corner of the street and looked up at the place of worship. He snorted when he saw a bell in both of the towers. The longer he stared the louder the buzzing in him got. He and was yanked out of his thoughts when a horn sounded behind him.

Shaking his head, he gave into impulse (or rather, the feeling he had), and turned left then entering the parking lot for the cathedral.

Getting out of the impala, he leaned against her when he shut his door, getting into another staring contest with the building. There were two other cars in the parking lot, parked innocently in front of the small, apartment-like building sharing the same property—he assumed that’s where the priests lived.

Stepping up to the cathedral, Dean walked around to the front entrance and walked up the steps. A man in a suit gave him a skeptical look, like he was the dirt under his shoe, but didn’t move to stop him from entering the building. 

IF Dean was a religious man, he say the singing in his veins turned into the sound of a choir when he stepped into the church. As it was, he was not a devout man, and the feeling he had just got more fucking annoying when he was surrounded by statues and stained glass windows. 

Walking up to the altar, he shoved his hands into his pockets as he looked onto the statue of Jesus on the cross. He laughed to himself.

“Where are you now, huh? Hundreds of people getting killed by demons and creatures that go bump in the night and you just let them suffer, apparently.” Dean likes talking to the statue, liked blaming someone else for the shit that was going down. His life was so fucked up and he needed an outlet, he never enjoyed laying the blame on Sammy. 

But a fictitious character that many people worshiped and believed to be omnipotent and told his followers that ‘everything happened for a reason’. Yea, he could lay the blame on him. He may not believe in God but if he kept the guilt inside him, all the names of those he couldn’t save, he’d go insane. 

The thrumming in his skin got louder as he heard the soft sound of footsteps behind him. The person inhaled and cleared their throat before speaking. 

“May I help you?” Well, whoever this was, they obviously gargled gravel for breakfast. He quickly turned around to look at the man. 

That fucking feeling stopped once he looked at the priest but he was too busy drowning in pools of blue to notice. 

\------------- 

Castiel woke early one Thursday morning. He always woke early, as his job demanded that of him, but on Thursdays he woke extra early.

He always watched the sunrise on the day of his namesake.

Getting dressed, he hummed “As I kneel Before You” to himself. He put on his black pants, his white undershirt, his cassock—black, of course, as it was not a formal occasion on this morning (though, if Castiel could get away with it, he’d always wear his choir cassock on Thursday mornings)—and finally he fastened his collar into place. He silently debated wearing the Greca, or at least the cape, but decided that it was still early enough in the fall that he wouldn’t get cold without it.

Quickly, he walked down the steps of the home, skipping the squeaky third step as to not wake Father Linden or Brother Young.

Castiel lived in the small, apartment-like building next to the Cathedral. Brother Pauls lived with his wife at their own home and a few of his other brothers-in-training were either away at university, learning to become a priest, and coming home only on Sundays for mass or they lived with their families in the neighborhood.

Father Linden told Castiel that he would be getting his own home soon, courtesy of the church, but Castiel told them he had no qualms with living in the church’s home for the priests and bishop. To most, the room Castiel was given to live in was small, but to Castiel it was the largest room he’d ever lived in alone.

Quietly, Castiel opened the front door, grabbed the singular key on the key rack, and walked outside. Father Linden and Brother Young quickly found out that Castiel rose before the sun on Thursday’s so they gave him the task of Thursday morning mass and Thursday afternoon confession.

Castiel was grateful and felt very blessed that Father Linden trusted him with the parish so quickly but, again, to anyone but Castiel, the choice was obvious and the sermon was in good hands.

The air was crisp on this early fall morning. Castiel could see his breath, barely, but it was there. He marveled at the simple action, basking in God’s creation.

Turning right, Castiel followed his morning ritual. He would walk down to Keith’s, buy a doughnut and a coffee, then walk back up to the cathedral and up the steps of the right tower to watch the sun rise over the horizon.

It was a snug fit, Castiel standing in the same space as the bell, but there was no better view of the sun from anywhere in town. No one rang the bells every hour anymore, a vast change from Italy; the bells only rang on special occasions like weddings and funerals. Apparently, Father Linden had a clock installed the year prior that chimed for them. It disappointed Castiel that there was an automated chime, he would be grateful for not having to ring the bells every hour, but having lived in Adrian for long, he had yet to hear the bells sweet song.

In fact, Castiel had only lived in Adrian (and by default, the United States) for two months as of yesterday. He’d been raised in an orphanage by nuns, Suore Domenicane Del ss. Sacramento, in the middle of Rome right outside of Vatican City. He didn’t know who his parent’s were, he was the “typical” baby dropped on a doorstep child. That being said, he grew up happily surrounded by the love and faith of the Catholic Church.

Having grown up in a Catholic orphanage surrounded by nuns, and living so close to The Holy See, Castiel grew up wanting to be a part of the clergy. He considered himself lucky, his Sisters were very accommodating, helping him get into University and study to become a priest in the Vatican.

Castiel was a close to a child of the Vatican as one could be.

That being said, how Castiel, a child of Italy and taught by members presiding in the Vatican, ended up in small town America…. Castiel was still wondering that himself.

He had been offered to take up clergy in many places wonderful churches around the world. Places closer to Rome, such as the Cathedral of St. Peter The Apostle, the Catedral Metropolitana de São Paulo in Fortaleza, Brazil, and St. Patrick's Cathedral in New York City just to name a few. But when he saw that this church needed help he had decided.

He believed it was God’s hand that was guiding him in the path he walked. For, while St. Adrian’s Cathedral was beautiful in its own way, he could have been in places like New York, London, or Brazil. Father Francis called him to Holy Orders and ordained him—he was more than qualified to work anywhere that was asked of him.

But, to be honest, Castiel enjoyed this small town and its people more than he ever enjoyed the beauty of Vatican City or the streets of Rome; it was for too busy for his taste.

He might not know why God had led him to this small town of Adrian, Minnesota, bit he would serve gladly and give thanks until the Lord Jesus Christ showed him the path that he had chosen for him.

Nodding to the few that were awake before the sin, Castiel breathes on the crisp, cool country air and thanked God for giving him the opportunity to; for the air was never this clean in Rome.

Walking into Keith’s, he inhaled the scent of fresh yeast and warm coffee—something he rarely got to enjoy whilst living in Rome. Silently thanking God for the small miracle once more Castiel smiled at the man behind the bakery counter, covered in flour.

“Good morning, Father!” The man grinned at the priest and Castiel bowed his head slightly in greeting.

“Good morning Brother Putnam. How are you on this beautiful morning blessed to us by God?” Keith laughed heartedly and shook his head to himself as he snapped the lid onto a to-go coffee cup.

“How many times have I told you to call me Keith?” Castiel just shrugged and walked up to the bakery counter.

He was happy to note that most of his Italian accent had disappeared. It wasn’t fully gone but growing up in an Italian orphanage, the nuns spoke both Italian and English so both were considered his native language. By default he’d never fully been able to rid of his Italian accent out of his English (nor his English out of his Italian).

“What doughnut would you like this morning Father?”

“Whichever you prefer; I thank you for whatever pastry you decide to give me.”

“Hmm,” Keith snapped his fingers. “I know just the one!” Leaning down, the store owner rummaged through the under-counter shelving and grabbed one. “Here you go father. A glazed, strawberry stuffed doughnut with vanilla filling, a dash of whipped cream,” As he saw this, he shook a can of Reddi Wip and squeezed some on top of the already overflowing pastry. “And a sprinkle of powdered sugar.” Naturally, Keith pulled out a sifter and tapped one finger on its edge so just a touch of white powder fell onto the pastry like freshly fallen snow.

Quickly, Keith wrapped the doughnut in parchment paper and handed it to Castiel. The priest’s grin got wider and his eyes sparkled. Inhaling the smell of the fresh strawberries, warm dough, sweet vanilla cream, and the freshness of the whipped cream; Castiel’s mouth watered.

Shaking his head softly, Castiel quickly pulled himself back together (not that from Keith’s perspective he was falling apart) he reached into his pocket to grab his wallet.

“How much do I owe you, Brother Putnam?” The owner chuckled again and shook his head.  
“It’s on the house, Father, like every morning.”

“I still feel like I owe you something. You have shown me much kindness.”

“How about this, put the money you owe me into this morning’s offering? In fact, how about that’ll be our deal from now on?” Castiel nodded and let his wallet slip back into his pocket, mentally adding five extra dollars to put in his usual morning offering.

“If that is what you wish. Are you coming to mass this evening?” He picked up the coffee he assumed to be his, and figured it was when Keith made no motion to stop him, and took a sip. Yes, this was his; Keith took his coffee black while he took his coffee with so much crème and sugar it tasted more like warm sugar milk with a hit of coffee flavoring than coffee. He watched passively as Keith scratched the back of his head and gave a sheepish grin.

“Wish I could, Father, but I have to be home tonight to watch Annabel.” Castiel nodded, knowing the man was (more than likely) going next door to The Rumor Mill bar to watch Thursday night football like many other men in this town. He did not voice these thoughts, however, accepting the lie.

“Have a good day then, Brother Putnam. Thank you for the food. Peace be with you.” Castiel turned to walk out of the store before he heard a response. If he didn’t hurry, he’d miss sunrise.  
“And you, Father.”

Walking back down Main Street, Castiel said his silent prayer ‘thanking his father who art in heaven for the meal given to him that morning and the restful night sleep he’d let him receive the night before’ before taking a bite of the sweet smelling doughnut.

Castiel closed his eyes as he moaned softly to himself. Priests were not suppose to partake in pleasures of the flesh, sexual or otherwise, and in Rome he would have never gotten away with this—being a celibate priest partaking in even the smallest enjoyment of the flesh. But in America, he’d realized, people have a more open mind in what ‘pleasures of the flesh’ mean. And Castiel had to admit, he had a horrible sweet-tooth. He was happy he could enjoy the pleasure of food without being ridiculed for it.

Slowly savoring the pastry, Castiel hummed the hymn I Am the Bread of Life as he walked back to the cathedral. By the time he got up the front steps and unlocked the doors, the pastry had been decimated but the coffee was still a warm presence in his hands.  
Genuflecting and making the sign of the cross, Castiel quickly entered the building. Hastily climbing the steps of the south tower, Castiel squeezed into the belfry and looked through the slots to the east.

Sipping his coffee, Castiel watched the horizon turn from black to dark blue, to faded pink and green, until the sun peeked over the horizon and the sky lit up with a multitude of colors.

“Thank you, Father, for this beautiful Thursday sunrise.” For some reason, Castiel believed this to be the most stunning Thursday sunrise he’d ever had the opportunity to witness and that included the time he was blessed enough to witness the sunrise in Rio where he stood at the steps of Christ the Redeemer and watched the sun hit the expertly sculpted soapstone.  
This would truly be a memorable sunrise.

He had a feeling today was going to be a truly wonderful day given to him by his Lord Jesus Christ.

Sipping the last dregs of his coffee, Castiel waited until the last tip of the sun was over the horizon before walking back down the steps and getting ready for morning mass.

\-----

Mass went well, or rather, it went as was expected. Thursday morning, or now Thursday afternoon, most of the mass was female since most of the men were at work. Castiel faintly heard the sound of laughter, telling him that recesses was in session at Adrian Elementary school behind the cathedral. Because most were at work or school, only 30 or so came out and nothing unexpected happened. 

Well, almost nothing.

There was nothing different about mass, of the presentation of the sermon, bit about halfway through—when giving a scripture from Psalms—Castiel started to feel a humming in his veins.  
It was subtle at first, easy to ignore, but by the end of communion and the last prayer it was becoming more noticeable; more like an itch rather than a hum.

Nodding to the few women left outside, he walked back inside and briskly walked the way to his office. He stopped to shake hands with Brother Johnson, the one usher of the morning, before continuing on his way. Sighing, he genuflected and made the sign of the cross before entering his office and sitting in his chair. Setting his hat on his desk, he rubbed his fingers at his temples and attempted to meditate.

Father Linden would be at a meeting with Fathers Ferguson, Craft, and Dunkin at Our Lady of Good Counsel church in Willmost speaking about the sermons they were to give on Sunday. Brothers Young and Pauls would be with some of the parish’s volunteers, already discussing what the church could do this upcoming holiday season.

Castiel was the lone member of the Clergy in the cathedral.

Very quickly, the singing in his bloodstream became too much and he realized he would never reach meditation. When he could no longer sit still, Castiel stood and walked out of his office. Maybe he could go to the elementary school to work off some of whatever this was. They always enjoyed surprise visits from him.

He’d walk around town, enjoying the quiet life he now lived, but confession was in a half hour.  
Smiling to sister Hellen as he passed the front office, he continued until he was in the foyer before he spotted something out of the corner of his eye—or rather, someone.

A man that Castiel had never seen before in the 1,200 person town was standing at the altar facing away from him, and his head was tipped up, looking at the stature of Christ.

The man’s hair was brown and he wore thick, sturdy jeans, a well faded green fleece jacket and heavy duty leather work boots. No person in this town would be caught dead in the cathedral looking like that—let alone standing before the altar and the stature of Christ. Castiel should have been appalled but rather, he was intrigued.

The humming got louder.

Genuflecting and making the sign of the cross before entering the room, Castiel walked down the nave to where the man stood. He had to resist running to the man.

Who was he? Why was he here? Why was he dressed like that? Why was the singing in his veins getting louder when he spotted him? Why did he have to restrain himself from running to a stranger?

Stopping a respectable distance from the man, Castiel composed himself and cleared his throat which felt like cotton balls had been shoved down it.

“May I help you?” The man whipped around to face him and Castiel’s breath caught in his throat.

Cerulean met Emerald.

The humming stopped.

**Author's Note:**

> genuflect--lower one's body briefly by bending one knee to the ground, typically in worship or as a sign of respect.
> 
> belfry--the room where the bell is placed in a tower 
> 
> Cassock-- A long-sleeved, hoodless garment. The color is black for priests. (The traditional white robes every one thinks of is only worn on Sunday Mass or on a special occasion) 
> 
> Greca-- An overcoat covering the cassock.
> 
> Nave-- the main body of the church. Where sermon takes place, the pews are, and the alter is at the front of the Nave
> 
>  
> 
> Note: This has not been betaed. I you would kindly point out my errors, I'd greatly appreciate it.


End file.
